Done
by Hollow Nightmare
Summary: Lisbon finds an unlicensed gun in the CBI attic, and all hell breaks loose. Jane/Lisbon
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is going to be a two-parter, and is set sometime in Season 3, after Episode 6 (since that is all I have seen). Since I probably won't be able to see more for a while (so please don't spoil anything!), the second chapter may end up being slightly AU. Please review!

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There is an unlicensed gun in the CBI attic.

It is sitting inside a wooden box, on the floor, surrounded by scattered papers and a leather journal, opened, with scribbled notes. There are a few scattered pens littering both the floor and the desk, and one has even fallen into the space under the floorboards that the wooden box had previously occupied. The makeshift bed is empty, the chair is empty, but on the floor in the corner Lisbon is hunched over, frozen, as she stares at the weapon in front of her.

She hadn't meant to find it. She had gone upstairs to look for Jane, and had found the leather journal tucked under the pillow, one corner sticking out temptingly. Haltingly, knowing just how unethical her actions were but unable to control them, she had reached for the journal, opened it to a random page, and had seen Jane's unedited thoughts and ideas, proposals and suggestions about what Red John had said to him after Kristina Frye had gone missing.

She had dropped the book, stunned at his betrayal. He had lied to her before, he lied to her quite frequently, actually, but he had _never_ lied to her about Red John. She had known he was keeping something from her, but something this big? The journal had tumbled to the floor, scattering loose papers. They had glided through the air slowly and landed silently on the floor, deceptively light despite the heavy thoughts. She had bent down to retrieve them, thoughts whirling a mile a minute, and when her fingers had bumped against a loose floorboard she had absent-mindedly tried to right it, then frowned as it didn't settle into place. She had looked down, noticed there was something _underneath _it, and had slowly pulled out the wooden box, the journal all but forgotten in her curiosity. She had knelt on the floor in front of the box, and skimmed her fingers lightly over it, somehow apprehensive about opening it. She had flicked her thumb against the opening once, twice, not entirely certain if she even _wanted_ to know what was in there; then the third time there was a click, and her fingers were automatically pushing up the top.

Her mind had gone curiously blank as she reached inside and pulled out a gun. Her hand had automatically held it in the correct position; it had fit perfectly, and she had turned it over and over, looking at it from all angles, before her thoughts had returned full force and she dropped the gun, practically threw it against floor, and scooted backwards.

She sits in the corner now, her arms hunched over her knees and her eyes staring vacantly at the glaring weapon. She is shaking, she realizes in the back of her mind, but she can't bring herself to move. She feels sick, feels like she might throw up at any second. There is a strange sort of paralyzing flush flowing down her body; first her head feels an uncomfortable pressure, then her shoulders get hot and stiff, until it spreads down and she feels like her lungs are being constricted. She wonders idly if she is in shock. Her knuckles, clenched together, are stark white. Her heart is racing.

The gun looks out of place here, she thinks detachedly, like it doesn't belong. It seems to have its own presence, its own being, like it is taking over the entire room. Like it is taking over her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping against all hope that she has imagined this, but when she opens them again it is still there, taunting her, glaring at her.

The world seems to spin around her, and she clenches her eyes shut again, trying to get a grip on herself. Her skin is practically tingling with nerves, pimpled by the worst goosebumps she has ever experienced, and there is an uncomfortable clenching in her chest. A stifled sob unexpectedly bursts out of her, and she raises a shaking hand to her mouth, clamping down on it harshly. Her eyes are wide, frozen, fixed on the gun. She can't look away.

_Jane is hiding an unlicensed gun in the CBI attic._

She knows Jane has never made a secret of the fact that when they find Red John he plans to kill the man himself. He has told her so, numerous times, eyes burning with serious intent and face so hard that she had felt physically slapped. But those had always been just _words_, never actions - no matter how many times he told her he was going to kill Red John, screw the repercussions, he had never actually taken any _action_ towards it. She knows he has always deflected her attempts at pleading with him to reconsider, has outwardly ignored and denied them, but she has been secretly hoping all along that maybe she was slowly, infinitesimally slowly, getting through to him. That maybe, whether consciously or not, he was beginning to doubt himself.

_But now he has a gun._

This is serious now. It was serious before, it has always been serious - but this… this is a whole new level of serious. This is no longer just vague plans for the future - Jane is now in possession of an illegal gun. His plans are solidified, practically iron-clad, and much, much closer to happening than Lisbon had thought possible.

Jane is no longer just planning to kill. Now he _is_ going to kill.

He has a _gun_.

She thinks she is going to retch. She swallows back the bile rising in her throat, and manages to stand on wobbly legs. She takes a couple of unsteady steps forwards, then leans down and slowly, mindlessly, places the gun back in the box, and the box back under the floorboard. She gathers the loose papers and places them neatly back in the journal, closes it, and places it neatly back under the pillow, exactly how she had found it. She surveys the room with a detached air, then silently makes her way back to the bullpen.

Leaving the dust and grime and stale air of the attic to enter the bustling bullpen feels like entering a new world. There is sound, and light, and movement, and it almost feels like the entire scene in the dark attic had been a dream of a sort, something in her mind. Her own worst nightmare.

Until she meets Jane's eyes across the room and feels a sick clenching in her gut. She tears her eyes away, hunches over and wraps an arm across her stomach, and swallows back the vomit that has risen up her throat. She gags once, and runs to the bathroom, barely making it into a stall before she is retching up her entire breakfast. She leans over the toilet sink for what feels like years, until her dry heaving produces no more results, and then she sinks back into a sitting position. She is shaking madly, uncontrollably, can taste acid in her mouth, and realizes hot, stinging tears are leaking out of her eyes.

A loud sob escapes her, and then another, and she panics, desperately trying to rein them in as she hears the door open and hesitant footsteps enter the room. The veins in her neck are standing out, and her teeth are actually chattering as she tries to keep from making a sound, her entire body tensed.

"Lisbon?" Van Pelt's voice is hesitant, and Lisbon feels a rush of relief. "Are you okay? Jane said I should check up on you?"

"I'm okay," she croaks back, and wipes a shaking hand across her eyes. "Just a bad breakfast - I think I have food poisoning. Could you let the team know I'll be gone for the day?"

"Um, sure," Van Pelt starts, "Are you sure you don't want me to take you home or something?"

Lisbon bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself together, desperately wanting Van Pelt to leave. She takes in a shuddering breath, and rests her forehead against the toilet, the cold ceramic a welcome relief.

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks, though," she adds, and slumps against the floor as she hears the door close behind Van Pelt.

The silence in the wake of her absence is overpowering, and Lisbon feels her mind go blank, concentrating on the slow, steady drip coming from one of the sinks. The air around her is spinning slightly, and she rests one hand on her stomach in an attempt to subdue the nausea. She has no concept of time, not even the vaguest idea of how long she lies there on the bathroom floor.

There are thoughts flitting through her mind, unwelcome thoughts, analyzing what she has just figured out. Jane has deliberately gone and gotten a gun, he is going to kill Red John, is going to butcher him, going to murder him in cold blood. She imagines the scene, imagines Jane pointing the gun, imagines the cold, hard smile on his face, his satisfaction, sees him pull the trigger. She vomits again, vomits until her stomach aches with emptiness, until her head is spinning and her limbs feel weak.

There is nothing she can do to stop him anymore. He has gone too far, gone over the brink, and she can't pull him back now. She can't save him.

Unwelcome realizations are filtering through her conscious, making her aware of things she has so far been able to repress through sheer force of will. She is beginning to realize that she would do _anything_ for this man, this broken shell of a man, absolutely _anything_. She remembers Danny, remembers letting this criminal get away just because Jane wants it, because Jane needs it. She remembers laying both her job and her life on the line, for him. She knows that if - _when,_ her traitorous brain reminds her, _when_, not if - it comes down to it, she would still help him. Even if - _when_ - Jane kills Red John, watches with satisfaction as the light fades from his eyes, she would still try to save him, any way she can. She would give up her job for him, give up her morals, her ethics, her _life_. Because he owns her now, she loves him, _loves_ him, and would do anything, _anything_, for him.

She doesn't know what time it is when she finally sits up, doesn't know how long she has been lying there in a daze. People have come and gone, heels clattering against the floor, and through it all Lisbon has remained silent, frozen on the other side of the locked door, silent and still. Her mouth is dry and tastes like acid, and her cheeks are stinging, cracking with dried tears. She stands up shakily on weak legs, unlocks the door, and goes to stand by the sink.

Her skin is pale, sallow, and her eyes are blank, unfocused, red-rimmed and sore. She rinses her face with tap water, gargles to clear the stale taste from her mouth, and washes off the rest of her smudged makeup. She dries her skin and stares into the mirror, searching for some recognition of herself, some recognition of who she _is_, what she lives for, but she can't find. She isn't her own person anymore, perhaps hasn't been for a long time - she belongs to him now, and it makes her feel sick.

She looks away, ashamed of what she has become, and leaves the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind her.

It is dark outside, and the bullpen is empty, the lights off and the room silent. She is entirely alone. She walks into her office and gathers her belongings on autopilot, closes the door behind her, and rides the elevator in silence. Larry, the security guard on duty, calls out a goodnight to her, but she can barely muster a smile back in response.

Her footsteps echo across the otherwise silent parking lot, and her breath ghosts in front of her face in the late-night cold. It is surprisingly chilly for a Sacramento winter night. She marches towards her car, focused only on getting in and getting home, and nearly jumps out of her skin when a voice calls her name.

"Lisbon!"

It is Jane, getting out of his own parked car with a hint of a grin on his face, and Lisbon feels her heart racing, pounding, rattling her ribcage furiously, as he makes his way towards her. She feels nauseous again, and faint, and suddenly, absolutely _furious_.

"Jane, go home," she mutters as he gets close, avoiding his eyes and placing her key in the lock on her car door.

"I thought that's what you did hours ago?" he questions casually, attempting to stoop down to her level to get her to look at him.

She refuses, steadfastly ignoring him, and struggles to unlock her door, shaking and nearly crying with frustration when the lock gets stuck. Jane gently places a hand over hers, stilling her fingers, and takes the key from her.

"Lisbon," he says quietly, and still she refuses to look at him.

"Jane, I am so not in the mood," she mumbles to the floor. "Go home, right now, get out of my sight or I swear to God…"

Her voice is trembling, betraying her emotional state. Her threat hangs empty in the air, and still she refuses to look at him. His fingers come to rest gently against her shoulder, and she regards them with wide, shocked eyes, before wrenching back and recoiling as if burnt.

"Don't you dare," she hisses, "don't you _dare_ touch me!"

Her eyes flash to his now for the first time, burning with anger and fear and loathing, and she watches as he takes a small step back, hands held out in innocence and complacence. He looks surprised, and she wishes she could feel satisfaction at managing to catch him off guard, but instead all she feels is _sick_.

"Okay, okay," he soothes, attempting to calm her down.

She glares at him with all the strength she can muster.

"Leave. Right now!" she barks, and he takes another step back.

"Okay, calm down. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?"

His voice is calm and low, and he sounds so condescending that it makes Lisbon shake - with _anger_ this time. She is so enraged that she can barely see straight, like a red haze is clouding her blurry vision -

"Get out of my sight _right now_ or you will _regret_ it."

Her voice is like ice, despite the fire she feels within her bones, and her hand is instinctively reaching towards her hip, stretching blindly for her gun. But she knows consciously that she could never hurt him, and Jane knows it too. He ignores her warning and takes a small, slow step towards her, hands still held out in front of him, palms up in the air. He no longer looks at ease, he looks worried, concerned for her, and it makes Lisbon want to slap him.

"Lisbon, whatever has happened, you know you can tell me what's wrong."

His voice is soothing, like he is attempting to calm a wild animal, and Lisbon is so mad that her entire body is trembling with fury. How dare he, how _dare_ he treat her so condescendingly -

"You know you can trust me," he finishes, and that is the last straw.

"Trust you?" she exclaims, her voice breaking on the last syllable. "_Trust you?_"

She is snarling now, practically foaming at the mouth, and Jane takes an automatic step back, visibly startled.

"Y-" he starts, but doesn't get a chance to finish.

"Oh, that is _rich_," she continues, voice like daggers. "Give me one good reason _why_ I shoulld trust _you_."

"I thought we had gone over this!"

He exhales frustratedly, hands dropping to clench by his sides. He is frowning at her, intent, concerned, and exasperated, and she clenches her teeth against her anger.

"I told you - I am always going to save you," he continues seriously. "You know you can trust me, no matter wh-"

"How can I trust someone," she cuts in harshly, breaking him off mid-word, "who doesn't trust me?"

She had been worried her voice would break, would betray how upset she is, but instead her words come out strong, cool and hard. He blinks back at her in silence, caught off guard, and she watches coolly as he has to try to compose himself. Everything feels surreal, like the entire scene around her is some kind of nightmare, and she feels somehow detached from it all, even as she stands shaking in the middle of it.

"Trust you?" he repeats blankly. "Of course I trust you. You know that."

"No."

She is shaking her head now, slowly, bitterly, refusing to let him get to her. Not this time. She is done.

"No, you don't," she reiterates strongly, tilting her head back so she can look down on him, challenging him to deny her.

"Yes. Yes, I do," he accepts her challenge forcefully, walking forwards until they are barely a step apart.

He looks down at her, frowning intently, trying to make her believe him, but she refuses to. She will not let herself get caught up in him, not this time, not anymore. She takes a step back, still shaking her head, and keeps her eyes trained on him.

"No, you _don't_!" she barks, and watches as he flinches almost imperceptibly.

"Why would you think I don't trust you?" he questions, frowning at her, and she can practically see the gears in his brain turning as he attempts yet again to try and read her, to figure out her most intimate, private thoughts.

She knows she should bring up the journal, bring up the _gun_, but she selfishly doesn't want to, doesn't want to have to deal with the repercussions of her finding out, doesn't want him to know about it just yet. She needs time to figure out how she is going to deal with it, what she is going to. She cannot let herself be influenced by him again, not anymore.

"Lisbon?"

He is still waiting for answer.

"Why haven't you talked to me in - in a year?" she asks slowly.

She tries to think back, tries to remember the last time they really _talked_ - it was probably around the time Bosco died, she realizes slowly, around the time Bosco was killed for his connection to Red John, his connection to Jane.

"What do you mean? I talk to you all the time! I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" he questions, almost sarcastically, angry and defending.

"Oh, don't," she snarls. "You know what I mean, you know _exactly_ what I mean, don't play dumb with me. Not now!"

She knows why Jane has been pulling away, knows that he worries Red John will kill everyone he is close to, and perhaps she should feel flattered by that, flattered by his concern, but instead she just feels _hurt_. It hurts every time she tries to get close to him and he brushes her off, every time she tries to get _through_ to him and he ignores her. He has started flirting with other women recently, holding Van Pelt's hand and kissing Hightower's cheek, like he is trying to let her know that he doesn't care for her in any special way, that she isn't worth his time, but she knows he is just hoping that she will give up on him, so he won't have to worry about her safety any more. Perhaps she should feel flattered that he is trying so hard to keep her alive, but instead all of his flirting just makes her feel hurt, and she hates it.

"You're staying away from me because of Red John," she explains, watching in despair as a mask settles over his face. "You think that because I'm close to you he's going to -"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says coldly, detachedly.

"Oh, yes, you _do!_" she snarls, and yells in sheer frustration.

Larry the security guard peeks his head around the corner, attracted by her yell, but she is far too furious to care, and he leaves a second later. She can't remember the last time she truly yelled at Jane, out of anger and not just exasperation, truly screamed at him from the bottom of her heart. The empty parking lot is ringing with the echo of her frustrated scream, dark apart from the streetlights, and very cold.

"You're worried Red John is going to hurt me for getting too close to you -"

"Because he _is!_" Jane unexpectedly bursts out, cutting her off.

He has lost his composure, lost his control over himself, and is glaring at her with a wild look in his eyes, his hands clenching and unclenching in vexation. He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, exhales sharply, and casts a desperate, hysterical look at her surprised face.

"Don't you get it?" he yells, and she is so surprised she just blinks back at him. "Don't you understand? Red John has killed anyone who even _starts_ to get close to me. He killed my wife and daughter, he killed Bosco, he might as well have killed Kristina - and he is going to kill you! Don't you have even a shred of intelligence in that foolish head of yours? Are you really so _stupid_ -"

"Don't _you_ get it?" she yells right back, snapped out of her surprise back into anger, stepping right in front of and getting up into his face. "I don't care! I'm a big girl, Jane, I can take care of myself -"

"Not against Red John!"

"Yes, yes I can! Even against Red John! So _stop_ trying to push me away, can't you see that I'm trying to _help_ -"

"Can't _you_ see that I'm trying to help _you?_" he cuts in, sounding almost strangled. "He is going to kill you, Lisbon, and I can't let that happen."

"Why? Because you couldn't live with the guilt? It wouldn't be your fault, Jane, it would be his, just like it's _not your fault_ that your family died -"

"Because I care about you too much!" he breaks in raggedly, running a desperate hand through his hair.

Lisbon cuts herself off mid-sentence, her mouth dropping open in surprise. She had known this all along, sort of, but she had never expected to hear him acknowledge it out loud, and she is too surprised to say anything. He takes in a deep, ragged breath, and stares at her intently, his eyes wild with fear and frustration, his face pale.

"You're too important to me," he continues quietly.

She simply stares back at him for a frozen moment, the air heavy with things left unsaid, and only breaks out of her reverie when the streetlamp behind him flickers off and then back on.

"Why didn't you ever tell me any of this?" she questions, starting off just as quiet and then gaining momentum. "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me -"

"Again with the trust issues, woman!" he exclaims in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "Haven't I told you enough times by now, I trust you, Lisbon -"

"Well, then you should have trusted me enough to let me make up my own mind! If I want to put myself in danger to help you, that is _my _decision to make, not yours -"

"Not if I can help it -"

"It is _my_ decision, and I _choose_ to help you, screw the risks -"

"How do you think I would feel," he cuts in, "if Red John killed you, and I could have prevented it?"

She shuts up, stares at him in silence. He looks back at her, and asks her slowly, deliberately, "Do you think I could live with that?"

She opens her mouth and closes it, gaping like a fish, and hates how he can put her on the spot like this, how he can cut off her train of thought and leave her hanging blankly. Then she squares her jaw and glares back at him, folding her arms challengingly across her chest.

"How do you think _I_ would feel, if Red John got to you, and _I_ could have prevented it? If Red John killed _you_ - or if you killed _him_? You know how important you are to m- to the team," she continues quietly, seriously. "You know you're practically family now. Did you think we were going to let that happen?"

"No, and that's precisely the problem! You and your damn stubbornness, woman, your damn need to take care of everyone - can't you see that some people don't want your help?"

She ignores the stab of hurt these words bring to her, and faces him furiously.

"I don't particularly care what you _want_, Jane, because what you _want_ isn't what you need, even if you think it is, and I care about you too much to let you make that mistake -"

"Well, stop caring!" he yells, glaring wildly at her. "Can't you see I'm not worth it?"

She clenches her jaw, resolute.

"Can't you see that you _are?_ You know how I feel about you, Jane, even if we both pretend you don't -"

"Don't," he says quickly, placing his hands up in the air as if to block out her words; he takes a step back, and a panicked, frantic look enters his eyes. "Don't say it," he pleads.

"You _know_ that I love you," she continues deliberately slowly, so far gone that she can't even feel embarrassed at her confession. "I've known for a while now, even if I didn't want to admit it, and so have you - heck, you've probably known longer than I have."

She laughs bitterly, and he hangs his head.

"No," he murmurs weakly.

"Yes."

"Geez, woman, did you have to say that?" he mutters despairingly, and looks up at her with tortured, guilty eyes.

She feels a stab of anger at his reaction to her blurting out her feelings, at his pity, and bares her teeth.

"_Yes_, because it's true. And I'm _sorry_ if it was convenient for you when neither of us acknowledged it," she says sarcastically, bitingly, "I'm sorry if it made it _easier_ for you to deal with me when we could both pretend it wasn't there, but you know what, it is. And if we have to face the truth and deal with it now, then tough. I'm so sick and tired of pretending -" she slams her fist angrily against her car door, and he jumps at the sound "- that you aren't compromising my judgement, aren't compromising my ethics, because we both know you are. You know I would do anything for you, even if I didn't want to."

She looks away. She lets out a tired sigh at the end of her speech, and leans back against her car, sliding down until she is resting on the ground, her knees drawn up and her head resting back against the the door. Closing her eyes, she acknowledges how drained she feels, how tired, how empty.

There is silence for a long moment, then she hears shuffling and opens her eyes to find he has settled on the floor next to her, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands fidgeting against each other. He looks so out of place here, on the floor of the parking lot, that she almost wants to smile, but she can't. Not right now. Instead, she sighs, and closes her eyes again.

Silence stretches over them for eons, and sometime later she feels Jane take her hand. She should be angry at him, should pull away, but instead she laces her fingers through his, and feels relieved when he only tightens his hold. His hand is warm against the cold, dark air, his fingers surprisingly calloused for someone who does no physical labour. She ghosts her thumb over his, the faintest of touches, and feels him twitch in response.

"You know I would do anything you asked me to," she whispers, breaking the silence, "so why have you been lying to me?"

"Because I was trying to protect you," he murmurs back quietly, tiredly, then his hand freezes in hers and he turns to look directly at her, frowning. "How did you know I lied to you?"

She faces him directly, refuses to back down, even as she feels her soul fill with apprehension.

"I found your journal," she states clearly, unflinchingly.

A betrayed expression passes over his face and he pulls back, sliding his hand from her grasp. She lets him. He slowly stands up, and looks down at her with disbelief, standing over her intimidatingly. She stares right back up at him, meeting his challenge, refusing to back down. Instead of feeling sorry, she actually feels a swell of anger slowly rising within her.

"You read my journal?" he demands, his expression closing off and his face becoming hard.

She stands up to be on equal footing with him, suddenly not so tired anymore, and they face off in the low lamplight, with matching scowls and glares.

"Yes," she replies forcefully.

"You read my journal," he repeats, and his expression is so closed off that she can't even begin to read it. "You - you talk about trust, and you've been reading my _private thoughts_ -"

"You've been _lying_ to me," she yells in outrage, disbelieving that he can be mad at _her_ when he has been keeping her in the dark for months.

"You - you read my journal!" he repeats, as if he's so stunned by this that he can't think of anything else to say. As if this is accusation enough, even compared to her allegations. "That is an unbelievable breech of trust -"

"Jane, you've been lying to me for months, don't you dare even talk about breeching trust -"

"To protect you!" he exclaims disbelievingly, still shocked that she had had the gall to read about the _lies_ he had told her.

"Oh, yeah, right!" she snarls, temper flaring right back at him. "Come off it! You lied to me because you didn't want me to get in the way of your grand plans for Red John! You just didn't want me to find him before you did, you didn't want me to figure out his clues and get in the way of you killing him! I can't believe how long you've kept this from me!"

"In case you hadn't noticed," he says sarcastically, "I've been trying to keep you safe! Making you a part of my search for Red John isn't exactly keeping you out of the line of fire!"

"Oh, stop lying to me!" she screams, and is so furious that she stomps her foot, like a child, and can't even blink back the angry, frustrated tears that have sprung to her eyes. "You weren't lying _for my protection_," she mocks, "you were lying to make sure I couldn't get in the way!"

"How can you say that?" he demands harshly. "After everything I've just told you tonight, how can you even think that?"

She sniffs, and wipes at her eyes with her hand, then glares at him challengingly.

"You want to know why I think that?"

"Yes!"

"Well, then, why don't you tell me about the _gun_ you've been hiding in the attic?"

Her voice is cool, hard, and she raises a mocking eyebrow at him, challenging him, daring him to reply. She is treating him like one of her murder suspects, and she appreciates the distance it puts between them. It makes her feel like she actually has a semblance of control, over the situation, or maybe even just over herself.

There is a moment of stunned silence as he stares at her, lost, and then his face hardens until she thinks it could cut glass.

"So you've snooping," he accuses coldly, and she lets out a slightly hysterical laugh.

"_Snooping?_ That's the worst you could come up with? You've been hiding an illegal gun so that you can deliberately murder a man in cold blood, and you're accusing me of _snooping?_ I - I don't even know what to say that."

She throws her hands in the air and looks around as if for inspiration, then glances back to find him staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. She sobers instantly, and leans back against her car for support, feeling both nauseous and dizzy and again. Her adrenaline has kept her going for so long, but now she is just feeling sick and drained, and much too tired to deal with this.

"I can't believe," she continues quietly, "that you actually did it. That you went and got a gun. Jane, this is serious - this is way overboard, this is completely…"

She trails off and lets out a sigh, frustrated at her inability to express herself and the gravity of the situation. Jane is still watching her silently, and she stares back at him, but cannot communicate with his blank, walled off eyes.

"I didn't go and get the gun," he says eventually, unmoving, and her head snaps up to face him.

"What?"

"I didn't go and get the gun," he repeats, staring at her, willing her to believe it.

"So, what, the gun just magically appeared there one day-?"

"No," he cuts her off forcefully, refusing to listen to her sarcasm. "Someone gave it to me. I didn't ask for it, and I didn't deliberately go and get it, either. I know I haven't been honest with you, but I'm not lying, not this time. I promise."

She stares at him, judges him, tries to reason with herself about whether or not she can trust him. He looks back at her openly, no longer closed off, and she can feel herself weakening.

"Okay," she acknowledges quietly, and nods once to show she believes him.

A ghost of a smile passes over his lips, so faint she hardly notices it, and he moves slowly to stand beside her, leaning back against the car just like she is, reassured that everything will be okay.

But it isn't okay. She realizes this now, realizes that it probably never will be, and that she can never _make_ it okay. There is nothing left for her to do, and she just can't stand idly by and watch Jane destroy himself. It would kill her. The realization of what she has to do is like a ripping in her chest, like it is tearing herself in two, like it is squeezing her heart and her lungs until she can't breathe, can't live. It _hurts, _so much, to even consider this, and yet she knows it would hurt so much more _not_ to go through with it.

So she looks down, clasps her hands together tightly, and steels herself for what is about to occur.

"But you didn't hand it in, either," she continues quietly, "did you?"

His body tenses, and he slowly turns his head to look at her, but she ignores him. She takes a moment for herself, feels her heart breaking, and slowly gathers the inward strength she knows she will need to go through with this monumental decision. She closes her eyes, takes a deep, slow breath, then turns to look at him.

He is regarding her quizzically, as if he is unsure what to make of her statement. She braces herself, then talks slowly, carefully, thinking through each individual word before she utters it out loud.

"Jane. I want to trust you, really, and maybe I already do about certain things, but I don't… I don't think I will ever trust you when it comes to this, when it comes to Red John, and honestly I don't think that I _should_. I know you didn't go out and get the gun yourself," she adds, before he can interrupt, "but the fact that you kept it at all… that you hid it in the attic, when you can't even stand the _sight_ of a gun… it doesn't look good, Jane."

He opens his mouth as if to say something, frowning, then breaks off, as if he can't quite figure out what he wants to say. He can't even defend himself, and Lisbon feels a shattering in her chest as she realizes just how right she is. He can't even deny it.

"I thought that maybe, on some deep, subconscious level, just maybe I was getting through to you, but I don't think I have. I'd hoped that maybe you were starting to doubt yourself, that you might choose _not _to kill him - even if not for yourself, then at least for me. You know how I feel about you. You know what would happen to me if you went through with it. And I had hoped that even if reasoning hadn't gotten through to you, then maybe whatever small feelings of friendship you had for me would at least make you reconsider. But that was foolish, wasn't it?"

She smiles sadly, and watches as he opens his mouth again, as if to argue with her, then stays silent. He seems frozen, and his expression has become unreadable again.

"I can't get through to you any more than anyone else, can I?"

Still he is silent. She looks down, and feels the pieces of her heart rupturing, breaking away from each other, until all that is left is a broken hole. She physically _aches_, unbearably, the pain so intense that she wants to curl up and die. She breathes in shakily, then turns to face him fully, placing a hand on his upper arm until he looks at her.

"Okay, here's what I'm going to do," she explains quietly, not even trying to understand his expression anymore. "I'm going to take the gun and hand it in anonymously, and then I'm going to hand over your journal to the Red John team."

He clenches his jaw and swallows, but otherwise remains silent, so she continues, pulling in a long, slow breath. She is in agony, but simultaneously she feels strangely almost liberated. She is finally, finally, finally doing something for herself, rather than for him.

"And then I'm going to go to Hightower and ask to be transferred to another office."

She is done with him.

His eyes snap to hers, suddenly focused, and something passes over his face, but she is done trying to read him. She is defeated. She has given up, finally, and, though it is killing her, she also feels twinge of relief. Soon, she will no longer have to deal with any of this.

"Okay?" she asks gently, and shakes his arm slightly when he doesn't respond. "Jane, I need you to let me know that you understand."

He nods once, jerkily, and whispers hoarsely, scratchily, "I understand."

"Good."

She lets go of his arm and steps back, reaching for her car keys. He is still standing there, as if shell-shocked, and remains that way as she opens the front door and sits down, buckles her seatbelt, and starts the engine. She is strangely composed now, running almost on autopilot, and refusing to consider further what she has just realized, what she has just decided. She won't even think about it, not right now.

She rolls down her window and calls to him, frowning with concern but too drained to do anything about it.

"Jane, go home and sleep," she says. "I'll see you in the morning."

He nods again, and seems to snap out of his daze, taking a step back so that she can drive away. She pulls out of the parking lot and refuses to look back at him in the rearview mirror. She is going to go home, take a bath, down a bottle of wine, and then she is going to cry herself to sleep over Patrick Jane, for the first and what she desperately hopes will be the last time.

* * *

A week later, Jane lies sleeping on his makeshift bed in the CBI attic, until he is woken by soft, departing footsteps, and a whispered "Goodbye, Jane," echoing through the dust. He blinks his eyes open and turns to look at the entrance, but all that is left are the imprints of footprints on the dusty floor.

He can't believe she just left without giving him a chance to say goodbye.

After _everything_ they have gone through.

He is not entirely sure whether he wants to desperately chase her through the CBI building, or apathetically turn over and enter blissfully unconscious sleep for a year. He is saved from having to make a decision when he notices a brown leather journal lying on the desk.

He knows Lisbon had handed in his gun the next day without a mention of his name, and knows the Red John team have been made aware of the William Blake poem, and until now he had thought they had his journal as well, with all of his interpretations and thoughts.

Frowning, he runs a hand across his tired eyes, and stands up to walk over to his desk. It is definitely his journal, and as he thumbs through it he is surprised to find that it is entirely intact, not a page missing, not even a single page placed out of order. He doubts the Red John team have even seen it. So why did Lisbon give it back to him? Was she… giving him a head start?

But then hadn't she left because she _didn't_ want him to kill Red John?

He exhales sharply in confusion, and his frown deepens as he gets to the front of the book, where he finds a folded note with her handwriting. Short and sweet, it simply reads

_I hope that when it comes down to it, you change your mind._

_But mostly I hope that you get what you are looking for._

Did Lisbon leave because she couldn't stand the thought of him killing Red John, couldn't deal with helping a cold blooded killer? Or because she felt that since she couldn't change his mind, he had no more use for her? Had she given up on him, or given up on _herself?_

Jane stares thoughtfully at the note as he slowly sits down. Twirling it between his fingers, he stares absent-mindedly through troubled eyes, and contemplates.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: So… yeah. Because I'm a hopeless romantic, I just had to add fluff. I had a ridiculous amount of trouble with this one, though. I had to rewrite it about a million times, and I'm still not sure whether I'm completely satisfied with it… I don't know if the tone of the chapter fits in with the last one, and whether they seem out of character - or whether their OOC-ness is acceptable, considering the realizations they have gone through. So please review and let me know what you think! (And if you're kind enough to review, please also be kind enough not to leave any spoilers! I've only seen up to Episode 6.)

Also, I _may_ decide to add another chapter to this. But that's only a maybe, and for now it's complete. :)

* * *

It is _freezing_.

There is snow on the ground, shoveled on the sides of the street, blanketing the grass in the garden. Jane _hates_ snow. Hates the cold. Hates the frost. Hates everything about winter, actually. He chose to move to California based how much he hates the cold, if he is being entirely honest.

Jane has been to New Jersey once before when he was younger, but that had been during the summer, and he is unprepared for just how cold it is in early March. He stands shivering on the front porch of a cute, quaint house, but is reluctant to knock on the door just yet. The motion sensor porch light has been on for a while now, but still he stands there awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, and tries to burrow his neck deeper into his scarf. He blows into his ungloved hands in an attempt to keep warm.

Has he mentioned how much he hates the cold?

In all honesty, however, the cold is the last thing on his mind right now.

He is nervous. Uncharacteristically so. In fact, he can't remember the last time he was so nervous to see - a friend? A colleague? Someone he cares about, someone he trusts, someone he knows loves him. He shouldn't be so nervous to knock, and yet he isn't sure what to expect when the door opens.

"Okay, okay," he breathes, muttering to himself, and does a little dance on the spot to keep warm.

He raises a fist, steels himself, and taps it against the wooden door, once, twice. Slow, measured, not too loud, not too frantic. Okay. He thinks he pulled that off pretty well.

He is feeling rather pleased with himself, until the door opens and a tall man with dark hair and a broad smile opens the door. The man looks surprised to see him, a lack of recognition in his dark eyes, but he props the door open wide and says, "Hi," very pleasantly. He is obviously a well-adjusted man with great social skills. Entirely different to his sister.

Jane's mind suddenly goes blank, and all he can think to do is reply, "Hi," and smile rather awkwardly, still shifting his feet.

The man tilts his head a little, as if waiting for more, and a polite but quizzical expression settles across his face.

"Can I help you?"

Jane snaps to and suddenly remembers himself, though he is still not sure how to act. He actually can't remember the last time he wasn't sure how to behave around people; the feeling is so foreign that it has thrown him entirely off balance.

"Oh, yes, I'm looking for Teresa Lisbon, I was told I could find her here? I'm Patrick Jane."

He smiles charmingly and holds out a hand for the man to shake, but his expression has closed off, and the opening in the door is made subtly smaller as the man takes a slight step back.

"You're Jane?" he questions, his voice surprised but also slightly harder and warier than before; Jane nods once, shortly, and the man continues, "Uhh, yeah, listen, I'm not so sure that's a good idea… I think I'm going to have to say no."

He says it politely but firmly, and Jane feels an unwelcome stab of surprised resentment.

"Why is that?" he pushes, a falsely congenial smile on his face.

"I think you know," he man replies, and his voice is definitely much harder now.

Something clenches painfully within Jane at his words, something like - hurt? Guilt? Sorrow? He can't place it, and can't remember what it is like to be so out of touch with his own emotions. He is so good at reading others, and had thought he was good at reading himself as well, but when it comes to her he is just a huge mess of undefined chaos, and always has been.

"I just want to talk," he placates insistently, raising his palms to show he means no harm, and places the false smile back on his face.

"I don't think so."

The man's voice is forceful now, and he has placed himself directly in front of the door, with his arms crossed and a cool challenge on his face. He is much taller than Jane, and much more athletically built, and Jane knows there is no way he can get through that door, but he isn't going to back down, not now, not when he is so close -

"Daddy?" a small voice comes from inside. "Who is it?"

A little child pokes his head out the door inquisitively, with large, round, green eyes so reminiscent of Lisbon's that Jane feels a clenching in his gut. The kid can't be more than eight, but when he sees his father's defensive stance he automatically parrots it, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

'Daddy' ruffles the boy's hair absent-mindedly, and subtly maneuvers the child so that he is is half-hidden behind his father's legs.

"Nobody, sweetie, just a man looking for directions to get out of town."

Jane winces at the not-so-subtle hint. Okay, he gets it, he is not welcome here. He maybe - probably - definitely - deserves that, but no way in hell is he going back just yet. No way.

"Actually -" he starts, and is cut off when a very familiar voice echoes out the door.

"Jack? Hey, come back here, you little rascal, you didn't finish your dinner."

Jane's entire being snaps to attention and focuses on that disembodied voice coming from behind the front door. Something wells up inside his chest - he can't believe how _good_ it feels, just to hear her voice, raw and unmistakably _hers_. She sounds good, he realizes dimly; her voice had been very warm as she had teased the child, and playful, and reminiscent of how she used to tease_ him_, before… before everything.

She sounds good, and he wonders if he made a mistake coming here. If he really is that selfish.

But no, he knows that she will appreciate this. That she wants this.

(He hopes).

"Coming, Auntie 'Resa!" the boy calls, and scampers back inside quickly.

"Who was at the door?" he hears her ask.

"I dunno," the kid replies unconcernedly, a shrug apparent in his words, "somebody who's lost."

The man is glaring darkly at Jane now, slowly closing the front door, daring Jane to call out and get Lisbon's attention. Jane sees the warning in his eyes, sees the contained threat behind his bodily stance, and he takes the bait.

"Lisbon!" he calls loudly, aware of just how pleading he sounds.

The man roughly yanks the door closed, but it is too late. Jane hears a crash coming from inside the house, breaking glass, then stunned silence until the kid - Jack - softly calls out, "Resa?"

"I-I'm fine," he hears her stutter, voice faint and trembling, muffled by the door. "Sorry. I'll be right back to clear this up, okay, sweetie, just - just stay in your chair for a few minutes. Can you promise to do that for me?"

The boy must nod, because Jane hears footsteps approaching the door, and his hearts starts to race. His palms are sweating. He never sweats, but his palms are so wet now that he has to wipe them nervously against his pants. He swallows thickly.

The footsteps stop behind the door, and there is an unbearable moment of silence, in which Jane can hardly breathe, before Lisbon's voice comes through, hesitant and anxious.

"Andrew? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Andrew growls back.

His glare is so dark, so intense, that under normal circumstances Jane would have felt physically threatened by that alone; but he knows he is safe whenever Lisbon is by him. Andrew can glare all he wants, can stand up tall and roll his shoulders in a threat, but he won't dare physically touch Jane when Lisbon is _right there_, right behind that door, _so close_ -

"Say a word, and I will gut you," the man hisses quietly, and points a finger to the street. "You've done enough damage already, I think you should leave."

Jane looks back at him silently, watches the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, and finds himself agreeing. He _knows_ he has done enough damage, knows he can bring her nothing good, and that if he really wanted what was best for her, he would leave. Get off the front porch without another word, and leave, forever, right now. Disappear from her life completely, like she had tried to do for him.

But Jane is selfish, and he wants, needs, _needs_, her in his life, needs her so, _so_ much. He feels like he has been suffocating over the last few months, and is finally able to breathe. He can't, just _can't_ let her go.

So he nimbly sidesteps around the man, shrugs off the warning hand on his arm, and stands hesitatingly right in front of the door. She is just on the other side of it, he knows, and he stares at the wood, right in front of his eyes, feeling some wave of undefinable emotion coursing through him, choking his throat and blurring his vision.

"Lisbon," he says quietly, and is appalled at how his voice cracks. "It's Jane."

There is silence for a brief moment, and Jane closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the door, the wood cool and hard beneath his skin. He wonders what she is doing, just on the other side. Then he hears the soft snick of the door lock, and raises his head off of the wood as it slides backwards, opening into their living room.

The instant he looks at her, he is reminded of the last time he talked to her, that devastating, life-altering conversation in the cold, dark parking lot at 3am, the one that nearly destroyed them both. He is reminded of her note in his journal, her whispered goodbye as he slept, and the hellish weeks that followed; starting with his near-constant troubled thoughts about her motivation for leaving, and culminating in a startling realization of his own that led him to seek her out again, now, here.

"Jane?" she breathes, stepping out from behind the door, shock transparent in her faint voice. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?" she questions anxiously, worriedly, and Jane wants to both slap her and kiss her, for still being so concerned about _him_, after the way he has treated her.

She looks the same, he notices. Her hair is slightly longer, maybe, and she isn't wearing any makeup, but he finds he likes both of these changes. She is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, so different from her professional attire, but her familiar golden cross still circles her neck; Jane's gaze travels slowly from pendant back to her face, and he feels something like lightning shoot through him as their eyes meet. He doesn't say anything, is so filled with emotion he can barely even _think _coherently, let alone speak, and so he just greedily drinks in her image.

"Jane?" she pushes, looking a little scared and wary. "Are you okay?" she repeats, even more worried after he finds he can't answer.

Yes. No. Maybe. He doesn't know if he's okay, but he does know he has never felt a kind of relief like this before, a relief so strong and encompassing that he almost wants to weep.

He crosses the distance between them in two long strides, and wraps both of his arms around her before she can get out another word, pressing her so tight against him that he almost feels she might just mold into him, become a part of him, like he already feels she is.

She is his, he knows that, she knows that, and now he is hers as well, and when did _that_ happen?

He presses her closer, closer, tangles one hand in her hair and wraps the other possessively around her waist, burying his face in her neck to hide his tears.

She is visibly startled, he can feel it, doesn't even need to see her face, but after a hesitant second she slowly wraps her arms around him as well, lightly, warily, fingers barely brushing against the course material of his thick jacket.

"Jane?"

"Tess -" the other man says awkwardly, and Jane can't believe he has just completely forgotten that her threatening brother has been standing there the whole time.

"Go back inside, Andrew," Lisbon says calmly and firmly, taking control like she must have done a million times when they were young, motherless children.

"I don't know if -" he starts cautiously, but Lisbon doesn't let him continue.

"It's okay, really. There's broken glass on the floor, you should probably clean it up. I don't want Jack to step in it," she pushes, hitting against what Jane already knows is Andrew's weak spot.

Her hands press lightly against Jane's shoulders, tentative, and he shudders slightly, burying his face deeper in her neck. She strokes his back, awkwardly, uncertain how to deal with this display of emotion and and unsure of how to comfort him. Jane doesn't mind, really - he's comforted enough just by the fact that she is _here_, and not running away from him anymore.

"Okay, just -" the man breaks into Jane's thoughts, frustrated at his inability to express himself, "just - be careful."

Jane can feel Lisbon nodding against his shoulder, then he hears the front door close behind Andrew, and suddenly it's just the two of them on the porch, alone.

Jane inhales shakily, breathing in cinnamon and something else, something that makes him press his cheek against her skin and close his hot, burning eyes, content to just _feel_ for the moment. She is here, right here, he can see her, touch her, smell her, and he idly wonders if he'll actually be able to physically let go. He presses his lips against the side of her neck, faintly, the lightest of kisses, and feels her still for a second. He knows he must be confusing her right now, but he can't bring himself to care.

She is still gently running her hands up and down his back, long, reassuring strokes that she must have used on her crying brothers when they were younger. It is soothing, stilling his trembling, calming both his body and his mind, and Jane wonders how she can be at once both so awkward with emotions and yet so competent at dealing with them.

He wishes she would never stop. But he can practically feel her brain whirling away, a million miles a minute, wondering what he is doing here, now, after over two months, having some sort of emotional breakdown on her brother's front porch on the other side of the country.

"Jane," she whispers into his hair, "you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

Her hands still their movement and he can feel her pulling back slightly, wanting to see his face. He lets out a last trembling exhale against her skin, then unwinds his arms from her frame and pulls back just slightly. He lets one hand rest on her shoulder, reluctant to let go completely, and uses the other to wipe the moisture from his eyes, embarrassed that she has seen it.

She lets out a small, dismayed noise at the sight, and when he finally looks at her she is regarding him with a worried, puckered frown.

He smiles weakly at her, for a brief second, before lowering his hand back to his side. She still has both of her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and he can feel her thumb rubbing reassuringly through his jacket.

"I'm okay," he whispers hoarsely, his voice scratchy with emotion, and he can see her sigh with relief.

"Come sit down," she suggests, unwinding her arms from around him and moving to sit on the bench in the garden.

* * *

Her heart is in throat. It is lodged up there, choking her with fear and apprehension, until she can barely breathe. She hasn't heard from Jane in over two months, didn't think she would _ever_ hear from him again - and now he is here, at her brother's house in New Jersey, practically shaking with emotion, and she is so, so scared.

Jane never lets himself show real emotion, not unless it is connected to Red John. She doesn't want to know what would make him act like this, doesn't want to know what Red John has done to him now.

Or what he has done to Red John.

They sit on the bench in the garden, in the dark, and she watches his face, barely outlined by the faded porch light behind him. She is scared to open her mouth, scared to hear what he has to say. But he is silent, watching the ground, and she is shocked to see that his hands are twisting anxiously in his lap, a surprisingly obvious sign of his agitation. She reaches out to calm them, and he finally looks at her, his eyes still slightly wet.

"What happened?" she asks quietly, not sure whether she wants to know the answer. "Was it - Red John…?"

She feels her body shiver, just once, with apprehension, and a light seems to come on in Jane's eyes.

"Jesus, woman, aren't you freezing?" he mutters, separating their hands so he can pull his jacket off. "There's _snow_ on the ground."

She suddenly realizes that she is, actually, cold, that there are goosebumps peppering her skin and her hair is standing on end. She's only wearing a thin shirt, and it is abnormally cold for March, but the chill in the air is the least of her worries right now.

"Jane -" she starts, annoyed at the interruption, but he ignores her.

He is placing his jacket over her shoulders, physically pushing her arms through the sleeves, and she is too startled to really put up much of a fight. But then he starts to wind his scarf around her neck, and she thinks he has wasted enough time.

"Jane," she huffs in irritation; she has forgotten how _frustrating_ he can be, when he refuses to give her a straight answer. "_What happened?"_

"Why do you assume something happened?" he answers her question with a question, and she seriously wants to punch his face.

"_Jane_."

He sighs once, then looks back to the ground, and is silent for a long moment, as if unsure of what to say. Lisbon is too flummoxed by his behavior to even push him for an answer.

"Nothing… happened. Not really."

He sounds hesitant, tentatively trying out the words on his tongue, as if they aren't quite right. They can't be right, thinks Lisbon - if nothing has happened, then what the hell is he doing here?

"I don't understand," she replies eventually, when it seems Jane isn't going to continue. "What are you doing here?"

She watches with unease as Jane sighs again. He places his hand over his face, hunching over and resting his elbow against his knee. He runs his other hand through his hair stressfully, seemingly lost for words, as if his mouth has gone dry. Jane is never lost for words, and never indicates feeling any stress - not unless Red John is involved - and Lisbon still worries something has happened, something significant, despite what he has told her.

"Do you have any idea," he begins lowly, "what you have done to me over the last couple of months?"

Lisbon can do little else but gape at him in confusion, her bafflement overriding any last traces of worry.

"I don't understand," she repeats in bewilderment. "I haven't even seen you, how could -?"

"Exactly!" he breaks in, and exhales sharply.

Lisbon stares at him, waits for him to explain. She is bewildered, more than anything, and there are still faint traces of worry and apprehension muddling through her mind. She tries to work it out, tries to understand what he is having trouble saying, but she can't for the life of her figure out what he means.

_What happened?_ What has caused such a strong, emotional reaction in him that he felt he needed to come all the way out here to deal with it? She almost doesn't want to know the answer, but with her increasing worry she feels it is better for him to just come out with it.

"Jane," she says tentatively, after he has been silent for too long.

"Why did you decide to leave, that day?" he asks quietly.

He is dodging her question, and she snaps. She recognizes that maybe she should be being gentle with him, that maybe he is emotionally fragile and vulnerable right now, but she is so _sick_ of bending to his every whim, and is disgusted with herself; because even after being away for two months, she has reverted right back to who she used to be - someone who cares more about Jane than herself.

"Jane, just give me a damn answer, will you?"

"Answer me first."

"No, that's not how this works -"

He exhales in frustration, finally looking at her.

"Please, just - please."

She pauses, startled by the desperation in his eyes, and thinks that maybe going along with him will bring her faster results. It always has, before, so why should now be any different?

But she doesn't quite know how to answer him.

She had always known, somewhere deep in the bottom of her forgotten heart, that she would have to leave him one day, in order to get over him, even before she had known there was something to actually get over. It had never really been a question of why she had to leave, it was more… why she had chosen to stay for so long before that.

And the answer to that had been simple. She loved him. It was something intrinsic within her, no question about it. And she would have done anything to help him. She had thought, back then, that she could. That she could change his mind about Red John, that she could get through to him. She had thought she was making a difference, so she had stayed. For him.

Then she had found that gun, and her whole world had fallen apart. She had realized she was _wrong_. She hadn't given up on Jane - she still believes that he can change his mind - but she had given up on herself. Maybe someone else would manage to get through to him, but it would never, could never, be her.

So she had no more reason to stay. He didn't need her, so she had thought that maybe it was finally time to do something for herself.

She had left. She was done.

It sounds easy in her head, logical, but she can't communicate this to Jane. Doesn't know how, and perhaps doesn't even want to, doesn't want to share so much of herself with him.

So all she says is, "I realized you didn't need me."

He nods once, pensively, and she thinks that he already knows why she left. He figured it out a long time ago. Maybe she should be embarrassed that he knows how she feels about him, that he is the center of her world, but they are way past embarrassment by now.

He swallows heavily, and places his hand on top of hers on the bench, intertwining their fingers. She sucks in a quiet breath, and appreciates the way the frozen air chills her brain, keeping her grounded. It would be so, so easy to lose herself now, and she can't afford that.

She still doesn't know what he is doing here, and that still worries her.

"You were wrong, though," he says eventually, after a long moment of silence.

She looks at him blankly, waiting for him to clarify what he means, and he keeps his gaze focused on their hands, as if somehow scared to meet her eyes.

"I don't know how you did it," he laughs ruefully, almost bitterly, "and I certainly didn't realize it until after you had left, but you changed my mind a long time ago, Lisbon."

… what?

"I'm sorry?"

Her voice cracks on the last syllable, but she doesn't even care. She feels like she is in shock. Her body is numb - heck, her brain is numb. She doesn't believe him, can't even begin to wrap her mind around the concept, because it is just so - _impossible_. She gapes at him dumbly, lost for words. Surely she heard wrong.

"Do you want to know why I didn't hand in that gun immediately?" he asks, then quickly adds, before she has a chance to reply, "And no, it wasn't because I immediately planned to save it for Red John."

"What?"

Her voice is weak, faint, but she is proud that she managed to actually get out any words at all, what with the way she is currently feeling.

"When I was handed the gun, do you want to know what my first instinct actually was?"

She can't even bring herself to nod; she doesn't dare move a muscle, in case she wakes up from this strange, impossible dream and finds herself back in reality.

"It was to hand the gun in," he explains slowly, as if trying to organize his own thoughts into comprehensible sentences for her," and _that_ scared me. You know - you know more than anyone - how long I had been planning to kill Red John, with my own two hands - and then to realize that my first instinct, when given help, was to give it away…"

He trails off and looks away for a brief moment, and Lisbon holds her breath.

"I wasn't ready to accept that I had subconsciously started to change my mind - against my own _will_. I - I _couldn't_ accept it. You don't understand - that was all - that was all I had been _living_ for, and to realize that I couldn't - wouldn't - go through with it…"

He exhales, avoiding her eyes, and he looks so self-deprecating, so self-hating, that Lisbon finds herself automatically, without even really being aware of it, squeezing his hand in reassurance. He finally looks at her, really looks at her, and she holds her breath.

"You did it, Lisbon. You convinced me not to kill Red John, even if I get the chance. I don't… I don't think I could do it, not anymore."

He looks like he isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. She fears she might do both.

"Get out of here," is all she manages to blurt out, sending him a panicked half-smile.

She can't deal with this. He is joking. He is _joking_. There is no way this is true - no way it _can_ be true. This goes against - against nature, against everything she has always believed about him. She has always known that he had the potential, but - to actually have it come true, to have him _admit_ it -

"You're joking," she reiterates, aware that she she still has a ridiculous grin of disbelief on her face, a grin that says she is aware he is playing a trick on her.

But he squeezes her fingers and shakes his head, sending her a small, sad smile, and she breaks out of her daze.

She is afraid, suddenly - a different fear to earlier, less sharp, but somehow all the more chilling for it. A mind-numbing fear. This isn't - isn't some cruel trick, is it? Is this - can this be _real_?

He lets her pull her hand away from his, and watches as she scrubs her face in distress.

"I don't -" she beings weakly, then chokes off, and lowers her hands from her face to her lap, staring at him with apprehension. "Are you serious?"

"Very."

"And you're not just saying this?" she checks. "You're not gonna change your mind later?"

She can't deal with this. She just can't. She can't - can't even begin to take it in, begin to make sense of it. Can't even begin to believe him.

She clenches her eyes shut and rubs her brow, feeling swamped with an overflow of emotions and an overload of information. She is drowning, panicking, and can't even begin to make sense of which way is up. This is too much.

"Lisbon," says Jane quietly, seriously, and reaches for her hand again.

He ducks his head down a little to look her more directly in the eyes, and she can read on his face how he is willing her to believe him. He leans closer, entering her personal space, and she is frozen - her body is in a deadlock, and her mind is numb.

"I'm serious. I've had a lot of time to think about this, and I _know_ that I couldn't go through with it. I won't do it, I _promise_. You can trust me."

She looks at him for a long, tense moment, judges him, and comes to a decision. She feels her entire universe reorient itself around her, shifting and spinning and breaking and building, as she sits still, frozen in time. She feels something melt within her, bleed, dissolve completely, and she _knows -_

She trusts him. She does.

She _believes _him.

This is _real_.

And she smiles, a blindingly broad, embarrassingly tearful smile, taking over her entire face, and squeezes his hand so hard he winces through his own smile. She lets out a sound, something of a cross between a sob and a laugh, and her eyes turn suspiciously wet.

"Jane, that's -" she breaks off, voice trembling. "I - I can't believe this…"

"And you think I can?" he asks, lightening the mood a little.

She shakes her head, still smiling softly. There are so many things she wants to say to him, but she doesn't even know where to start. She isn't happy for him, not exactly - there is nothing in this entire tragic situation worth being _happy_ about - but she is relieved, so relieved, and _proud_ of him, for making the right choice.

She is scared, too. Knowing that he intended to murder Red John had been devastating, but she had accepted it, had come to terms with it, however unwillingly, so she had been able to _deal_ with it. But this - now that he has willingly chosen not to kill him - is somehow more terrifying.

Because now she has something to lose, she realizes.

What if he changes his mind? She does believe what he has told her, in a way - rather, when she takes the time to think it thought, she believes that _he_ believes it. That he has consciously decided not to go through with it. But she knows how he gets around Red John, and she fears that when the time comes he will revert back to his crazed obsession, and she won't be able to stop him. If - when? - Jane kills Red John, she knows that will be the end for her.

And yet she also worries that if he holds back, decides not to go through it, because of her, then he will spend the rest of his life living with regret, and he will _blame_ her, come to resent her, and she doesn't think she could live through that either.

There is no way this can end well.

And yet she knows she will go back to Sacramento, now. She is stupid, she knows that. She will never be able to get over him. She knows, inevitably, that she will get hurt, will break, will crash and burn, and no one will be able to pick up the pieces. But she is willing to take that risk, no matter how foolish it makes her, because he needs her, she can see that now, and she can't let him down.

She got through to him before, and she will do it again if she has to. If it comes down to it, she will be there for him, whether he wants it or not.

He is watching her, now, watching her face as she processes all these thoughts, as if he knows what she is thinking. He probably does, she realizes ruefully. She flashes him a smile, quick as lightning -

- and then the smile freezes on her face as a glint of gold catches her eye.

There is a chain around his neck, but it is what she sees _hanging_ from the chain that makes her facial features freeze immediately. She acts on autopilot; looks fleetingly at his hand, then back to the chain. Just as quickly, she looks away entirely, watches the ground, and refuses to meet his gaze.

Her mind is blank.

…blank….

…blank…

…blank…

…

…

…

She can't think. She can't think. She - can't - think - !

And then within a millisecond her brain goes into overdrive, thoughts rushing through her mind, tumbling around and around, over and under, intertwining and tangling and separating; so fast and fleeting that she can't even begin to sort them into coherent meanings or sentences.

What -? How -? What does this mean? Does he - does this - can this mean -?

_**NO.**_

She mentally recoils so quickly from these thoughts that she feels an almost physical sting of whiplash.

No.

She shuts down her mind.

She refuses to wonder, refuses to think, refuses to _feel_.

"We should go inside," she says blankly, hardly daring to blink, let alone look at him.

She gets up and has made it halfway to the porch before his hand on her elbow freezes her where she stands. His grip is gentle but firm, warm, and she is too afraid to face him.

"Lisbon."

His voice is quiet, serious, intent. Low and intimate. He has seen her reaction, and has realized what she is reacting to.

She flinches as if struck. He is tugging on her arm now, and she slowly, tentatively, reluctantly turns to face him, trepidation written all over her face.

She is terrified, but it is a strange kind of fear, excitable yet excruciating, chilling her very soul. The sight of the chain around his neck, his bare hand, has thrown her off balance, right down to her core, and she is terrified of the implications. This is so, so dangerous. She is frightened that she is wrong; she is scared that she is _right_.

"You must be hungry," she blurts, panicked, trying and fail to shake off his hand. "And - and Andrew will want to meet you, and -"

"Oh, hush, woman," he admonishes with a small but troubled grin. "Stop trying to stall me."

And before she can fight him off - would she even have been able to? - would she even have wanted to? - he is hugging her, wrapping his arms around her frame, clenching his hands in the material of the jacket she wears and pressing her tightly against his chest.

She stills, warily, her entire body tensed. She doesn't dare breathe. She is weak, afraid, torn between pressing closer to danger and pulling away to safety.

He presses his lips to her temple, soft, warm, firm, and her eyes flutter closed, enjoying the touch - enjoying the implication _behind_ the touch - far more than she should. Her heart is thudding so hard she almost feels sick. She can feel light stubble against her cheek, just the barest hint of it, and she can't control the shudder that courses through her.

"It's not that I don't love you, Lisbon. Because I do…"

His voice is more air than sound, a noiseless breath, as if the privacy they are sharing is still not enough for him. Her breath catches in her throat at his words, and she worries she might start crying. She can feel her heart breaking all over again, splintering slowly into infinitesimally small, fractured pieces, ripping her apart from the inside out.

"Oh, Jane," she whispers, her voice catching on a broken shard of her heart and ripping. "You don't love me."

"I do."

"No, you don't," she insists, quiet but firm. "You're confused. It's understandable, you've been through a lot recently, you've just rearranged your entire future -"

"Lisbon -"

She carries on as if he hasn't tried to cut in, "and maybe I helped, so it makes sense you would think you have feelings for me -"

He retracts his arms from around her, and brings his hands up to cup her face, holding her still.

"Woman, would you just listen to me for a minute?"

He sounds exasperated; she feels a familiar spark of irritation rise up within her in retaliation, but his fingers on her jaw are making it very hard for her to think.

He looks into her eyes, seriously, intently; despite herself, she can feel the pieces of her heart hopefully, tentatively, gluing themselves back together. She has seen his serious eyes before, seen his intent eyes, but she has never before seen them so warm, so dark, so intimate. She swallows thickly, uneasily, and forces herself not to look away.

"I'm not confused. I know how I feel, Lisbon. I've had two months to wrestle with this, and believe me, you have no idea how hard I tried - but I love you. I can't help it."

His voice is full of self-loathing; she can see that hates himself for needing her, for not being selfless enough to let her go, to let her find someone who he thinks deserves her. Despite how scared she is, despite how much her mind is rebelling against his words, despite how much she doesn't believe him, she winds her arms around his waist, offering comfort in the only way she can.

"Jane -"

"I just - I need time. I'm not - ready, I haven't -"

He sounds vulnerable now, emotionally fragile, and very afraid. Lisbon holds on tighter, her heart breaking now for him, not for himself, and she smiles sadly, overcome with sympathy.

"Hey, it's okay. Take all the time you need, I'm not going anywhere."

Of course she understands. Jane had accepted his family's death years ago, but he had never really let them go, she knows this. His plans to kill Red John had really been him clinging on to the only part of them that was left, and he has only recently _truly_ released them. He needs time to properly, _actually_ grieve, time to move on and move forward.

He leans his forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes, savoring the moment. This still feels surreal, and she is still afraid that she will wake up soon, in her brother's guest room, alone and broken. She will need time, too - a lot of time - to process this.

But then she feels his breath against her mouth, and her heart jumpstarts, racing, pounding relentlessly against her ribcage. She feels sick with nerves, but a _good_ kind of sick, and that scares her. She can sense, more than feel, him getting closer, closer, closer -

He kisses the corner of her mouth, the place where her dimple would be if she were smiling, barely grazing her lips. His mouth is warm, soft, the barest hint of stubble grazing her chin, making her pulse race - so fast that it is almost _vibrating_, not beating. She holds very still as he lingers for a long moment, and then finally lets herself breathe as he pulls back. He rests his forehead against hers again, and she struggles to control her overflowing emotions.

"What was that for, then?" she asks quietly, teasingly, trying to get a grip on herself.

"Just - ah - a preview."

He lets his hands fall from her face, slides them inside her jacket - his jacket - and circles them around her waist, drawing her even closer, until nothing, not even air, can come between them. She relaxes - actually _relaxes_ - in his embrace, hugging him back and resting her cheek against his neck. She closes her eyes, breathes him in.

They stay that way for what could be seconds or eons, she can't tell, content for the moment to simply just _be_. She feels Jane tracing patterns against the side of her waist, and she smiles into his shoulder.

She tries to think about everything that has happened, tries to rationalize it, process it, think it through and understand it. But it is an overload of information, an overload of emotions, and right now she feels too tranquil, too content, to start undertaking such a huge task. So she lets her mind wander, anywhere it wants to, and presses herself impossibly closer to Jane.

He must be letting his mind wander as well, because out of the blue he suddenly asks, "Have you been staying here the whole time?"

His voice, quiet and intimate, rumbles in her ear, surprisingly low, and she nuzzles just slightly into the fabric of his sweater.

"Mm-hmm. It's surprisingly hard to find a decent apartment in New York City."

"Why did you choose New York?" he asks curiously, and brings a hand out from under her - his - jacket to run it gently through her hair; she tilts her head towards the touch, seeking the soothing feeling.

"Wanted to be close to my brother," she murmurs, too relaxed to even open her eyes. "And Hightower arranged a good position for me."

She feels him tense, just barely, his back going a little rigid in her arms. His hand stills, clenched in her hair, before he slowly untangles the strands and continues to run his fingers slowly through them.

"When are you coming back?" he asks, a forced joviality in his voice that she sees right through.

She pulls back enough so that she can see his face, can see the hidden unease lurking in his eyes, then lowers her head back down to his shoulder, hiding her smile.

"Who says I am?" she asks innocently, unable to resist messing with him.

But she can sense him unwind, and can feel the smile as he presses his lips to her hair. He knows her too well, would never believe she was staying here, not after everything that has happened tonight.

"Funny," he murmurs.

"I thought it was."

She isn't stupid. She knows that this will, inevitably, end badly, no question about it. She has her doubts, has her reservations - about them, about Red John, about everything - but she will take what she can get. Because she also knows, without a doubt, that she will never, in all of her life, be able to say she is done with Patrick Jane.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: So... I gave in and added another chapter. :) This IS the last one though haha. Is it too fluffy at the end?

I mentioned in my previous Mentalist stories that I find it easier to write from Jane's POV, but for some reason I've identified a lot more with Lisbon while writing this one. I can understand where she's coming from a lot easier than Jane, who this season seems a lot more closed off. But I've still only seen up to Episode 6, so no spoilers please! And please review! :)

* * *

Lisbon is scared to open the door.

She had scrambled up the stairs, so fast she was almost flying, raced down the hallway as fast as she could, with no thought in her mind other than _she needed to be there ten minutes ago_. But now that she is here, right outside the door, she hesitates for the briefest second, clenching her gun tighter. Her mind races nervously, thoughts chasing themselves around and around, and she is so scared to see what is on the other side.

But she can't afford to waste time due to fear.

The next instant, barely one struggling breath away from the last, her hand is pressing down on the door handle, twisting, turning, and the door slides open.

She isn't sure what she had expected, and now she doesn't know whether to be relieved or distraught at the sight that meets her eyes.

The room is dark, lit only be the faint streetlights outside the window, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. It is bare, empty, dusty and cold, and she shivers with nerves. There are two men on the floor in the corner, one kneeling over the other, and she steels herself. There is the glint of a knife, a flash of red, and Lisbon feels her whole world come crashing down, like she has just experienced an apocalypse, like this is the end of days -

Oh, God. OhGodohGodohGodohGod -

She is too late.

But then the door slams shut behind her, and _both_ men flinch at the sound.

Jane isn't dead.

And neither is Red John.

Oh, _God_.

She can breathe again. The relief that sweeps through her is so staggering that she physically sways, and has to lean against the wall for support, faint with nerves and a racing heart.

She _isn't_ too late.

But if she doesn't pull herself together, pretty soon she might well be.

She breathes in, grips her gun tighter, and assesses the situation with cool determination. Both men are on the floor, but it is actually Jane who has the upper hand, she notes in surprise. She isn't sure whether that is more or less alarming. He is kneeling on the floor, holding a bloody knife in his hand, and looks so unkempt and out of control that she fears for his sanity. His eyes, when he looks at her, are so wild, so out of focus, so _insane_, that it is obvious he has lost his grip on reality.

The other man lies sprawled on his back, dressed in black robes and an eerie mask that sends shivers creeping down her spine. There is blood on the floor, and the man is obviously injured, but he is alive, and that is all that matters right now. His body twitches, then falls still, and there is a horrifying second where she thinks that _Jane has done it_ - but then she hears a rattling breath escaping from beneath the mask, then another, and she closes her eyes in relief.

She points the gun at them, in precaution, and takes a quiet, wary step forwards, never lifting her eyes.

"Jane," she says.

He blinks at her, still paused with the knife hovering over Red John's throat, but it is as if he doesn't really see her. His eyes are so wild he reminds her of an _animal_, a _beast_, and fear clutches at her throat, choking her, until she can't breathe, can't think -

"Jane," she repeats, louder, alarmed when he still doesn't react. "Jane, I need you to put the knife down."

He doesn't move, except to shift his gaze back down to Red John. His hand still hovers, shaking, trembling, and his mouth is set in a silent snarl. She takes another careful step forwards, like approaching a wild animal, scared to make any sharp movements lest she spur him into action.

"Jane, put the knife down."

She speaks slowly, clearly, but can't hide the tremble of fear in her voice. She is so scared he won't listen to her, scared he will go ahead and go through with his ambition, scared she will have to deal with the repercussions. Scared she will have to arrest him. Scared she will let him go.

She has never, never, _never_ been this scared in her life.

"Jane!" she barks loudly, fear getting the better of her, and his head snaps up.

He seems to recognize who she is, a dawning slowly coming over his face, but he shakes his head, and grips the knife tighter, so tight his whole hand trembles violently. Lisbon watches it warily; she can feel her gun trembling just the same way in her own hand.

"No," he says, his voice scratchy and rough, hoarse with emotion.

"Yes."

She inches closer, but he audibly snarls, lets loose a noise so animalistic that he is almost inhuman now, in his madness. She takes a step back, not wanting to induce him into action.

"You don't want to do this," she tries, pleads.

"Oh, yes - yes, I do, you have no _idea_ how much I want to do this."

His voice is rough, hard and fast, and he laughs cruelly. Lisbon can barely recognize him, and it is utterly devastating. She feels sick, and desperate, so desperate, and so afraid - and she can't breathe, can't think -

"This isn't going to help - this isn't going to change the past - it's not going to make anything better," she pleads, urgently, desperately.

"You don't know that!" he yells, so loudly that she almost expects the unconscious man to be woken. "You have no idea - this is _justice_, he _deserves_ it, he's going to get what's coming to him -"

"No, no - Jane, this isn't justice - this isn't going to fix anything, just _put the knife down -_"

"He murdered my wife and daughter!" he roars back.

Jane is trembling so violently now that she is amazed he can keep himself upright. His face is white, his pupils dilated, and she can see that every one of his muscles is taut, tense, rigid. It breaks her heart a little to see him like this, so out of control, so blinded. So lost. And, oh, he's going to do it - and she can't breathe - can't think -

"They wouldn't want you to do this, you know that," she yells back, nearly crying with frustration now.

She needs to _stop him_ -

"You don't know that! I made them a promise -"

He brings the knife closer, closer, closer to Red John's throat, violently trembling, and an icy cold knot of panic grips Lisbon's gut painfully.

She hadn't wanted it to come down to this, but it is a last, desperate resort. She had wanted Jane to let go for _himself_. She feels sick, she knows he will forever resent her for this, will never forgive her - but she is willing to sacrifice whatever feelings he has for her, if it means he doesn't kill Red John. His blaming her is worth his life, and she is willing to sacrifice their friendship to save him. Of course she is. Because she loves him, infinitely more than herself.

So she yells in desperation, her voice breaking, her gun becoming slack in her hand, "You made _me_ a promise! You _promised_ me you wouldn't do this!"

Jane blinks, and a light seems to come on in his eyes. Lisbon holds her breath; feels her heart race, pound, throb, feels the roaring panic in her head, feels the gun shake in her fingers. He hesitates, pauses, crouched over Red John's prone form. He is trembling madly, so violently that the knife in his hand actually touches the material covering Red John's neck, and Lisbon sucks in a sharp breath -

And lets it out shakily when Jane throws the knife down on the floor. He is breathing heavily, heaving deep gasps of air, and he clenches his hands in his hair, pulling so hard his knuckles turn bone white. He looks utterly distraught, like his whole world has come crashing down around him, his face twisted with despair and madness, but all Lisbon feels is _relief_, so encompassing that she can barely think straight.

She lowers her gun, rushes forward and kneels on the floor next to Jane. Picking up the knife gingerly, she throws it away, hardly wanting to look at it, let alone touch it. She feels for Red John's pulse with one hand, and places her other on Jane's shoulder.

"Jane," she says shakily, trying to get him to look at her.

Red John's pulse is faint, but it is there, and she immediately recoils her hand, physically repulsed. She grabs hold of both of Jane's shoulders, facing him directly, and shakes him lightly. He doesn't react, seems almost catatonic and, now that the worst is over, her fear disappears, replaced by concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks, squeezing his shoulders. "Jane!"

"What do you _think_?" he snaps, and shakes her hands off. "I -"

He exhales in frustration, and runs a shaking hand through his hair. Lisbon pulls back slightly, telling herself that it is ridiculous to feel hurt by his behavior - of _course_ he isn't okay, what a stupid question - and reaches for her cell phone. Watching Jane like a hawk, she presses two on speed dial and places the phone to her ear. Jane is still kneeling on the floor, breathing heavily, but Lisbon is scared to touch him.

"Cho," she says, when the ringing has stopped. "Get up here. And call an ambulance."

"Yes, boss," is the only reply she gets, and she mentally thanks Cho's succinctness for not making her explain anything yet.

"Jane."

Her voice is gentle, now, concerned, and she lightly places the tips of her fingers against his wrist, wary of doing more. He looks at down at them, but otherwise doesn't react.

"Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head, mute, and she slides her fingers so that she is grasping his hand lightly. Her gun lies abandoned on the floor next to her, near the bloodied knife, and she shifts away from them, closer to Jane, who still hasn't moved. Her knees are aching where they rest against the hard floor, but she doesn't want to stand up, doesn't want to leave him like this.

"Hey," she says softly, almost a whisper. "It's over. We caught him."

He looks into her eyes, but it is like he is looking straight through her, not really seeing her, and she feels her heart sink. He slowly, deliberately pulls his hand from hers, and she lets him, trying not to show her hurt, trying not to _feel_ hurt.

"I - I need to clear my head," he stutters, rising to his feet haltingly, jerkily.

She is wracked with indecision, torn in two. She doesn't think it is a good idea to let him go, but doesn't think he should be kept here, in this room, either. She doesn't think he should be by himself right now, but knows he doesn't want her around. She hesitates, uncertainly, doubtful, then nods her head once.

"Okay," she tells him, looking up at him from where she is crouched on the floor.

There are words on the tip of her tongue. She wants to tell him not to do anything stupid, to be careful, to not take too long. But she doesn't know if he wants to hear it, if he even _would_ hear it. In the end, she stays silent, cursing her lack of communication skills, and he nods once, woodenly, and exits the room without a backwards glance. Lisbon, crouched next to Red John's unconscious body, alone and distraught, feels a sharp stab in her heart, and wonders if she just made a grave mistake.

She barely has time to think it through before Cho comes bursting through the door, and then the rest of her night is consumed with statements and paperwork and hospitals. She is unbelievably busy, distracted, has no time even to think of Jane - but underneath it all, simmering just below the surface of her thoughts, her mind is concerned for him. She wonders where he is, what he is doing, how he is feeling, and she _worries_, so strongly that she almost feels sick with it.

If even she can't believe it's over, she wonders how in the world he is meant to.

Because it _is_ over. They have caught Red John. He will go to prison, will be charged with the death penalty, will get what he deserves - and it is _over_, and she just can't wrap her head around that. Over. _Done._

Jane doesn't return to the crime scene, doesn't show up at the hospital, and Lisbon pauses for barely a second before deciding to drive back to the office instead of her home. If she is going to find him anywhere, it would be there.

She parks quickly, then sits inside her car for a minute, trying to pull herself together. She feels faint with nerves, almost queasy, and she takes a few deep breaths before opening her car door and making her way inside the building. She isn't sure what to expect, what kind of state Jane will be in, whether he will even want to talk to her, will even want to look at her -

- but all her worrying is for naught, because he isn't even there.

She searches the entire bullpen, her office, even goes into the men's bathroom, but Jane is nowhere to be found. It looks like he hasn't been here at all. She is concerned in an entirely different way now; concerned _for him_, not concerned about their potentially awkward upcoming confrontation. Because he isn't even here to _have_ that confrontation - and where is he?

She heads towards her desk and collapses into her chair. Her body is exhausted after all of the trauma and high emotions of tonight, but her mind is racing, trying to figure out where Jane is, how he is doing, whether she should be worried about him.

She places her elbows on the desk and rests her face in her hands, trying to get a grip on herself. This is too much. Just way too much.

It's over. _Done_.

She wonders how many times she is going to have to tell herself that before it starts to sink in.

She exhales shakily, hears a flutter of paper, and opens her eyes to find a white sheet on her desk, blank except for two words scrawled in messy handwriting. Her entire body freezes when she reads them, filled with dread, and _now_ she is _worried_.

_I'm sorry_.

"I'm sorry"?

What does that _mean_?

What has he_ done?_

_Where is he?_

Her mind immediately conjures up images of worst case scenarios - _Jane lying under a bridge somewhere, floating at the bottom of the ocean, red blood gushing out split wrists - _

Her chest is tight, she is asphyxiating, her head is rushing, roaring, pounding, her entire body feels like it's on fire -

_Jane breaking into the hospital, finishing what he started - _

She clenches her eyes shut, and heaves in a deep gasp of air.

_Jane at his family's graves, broken, alone, going insane, now that he has nothing left to live for - _

She scrambles to her feet, and the chair falls backwards behind her with a loud crash. She doesn't pay it any attention.

She has to find him.

Knowing it is futile, she reaches for her cell phone and dials his number. It rings once, twice, three times, and then - "_You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message."_

Of course.

Panicking, she tries again, and again, and still nothing. She throws her phone against the desk in frustration, and can't even bring herself to care when the back falls of and the battery comes flying out, shattering into pieces. She stands still, frightened, and thinks, thinks, thinks -

Then snatches up the pieces of her broken phone, grabs her keys, and runs to her car. She drives all night, visits every place she can think of - his home, her home, his family's graves, the scene of the crime, the hospital, the county jail….

But he is nowhere.

The sun is just starting to rise when she finally gives up, too exhausted and distraught to continue. She makes her way back to the office, with the intent to wait there on the off chance that he returns. But one second she is sitting down in her chair, worrying, and the next thing she knows the sun is glaring through the blinds, and she is waking up with drool dripping down her chin.

She wipes her face and rushes to the bullpen; when she sees Jane's empty couch her heart sinks to somewhere near her feet. Van Pelt is just arriving, shrugging off her jacket, and Cho is already at his desk, computer on and a mug of coffee steaming in his hand. They both look up as she enters.

"Have you guys heard from Jane?" she questions anxiously.

"No," answers Van Pelt, looking a little surprised. "I would've thought he'd be with you."

Lisbon doesn't want to think about what Van Pelt is implying, what she has noticed about their not quite platonic relationship, because it hurts too much. So she just shakes her head, and suddenly Van Pelt looks concerned as well.

"Maybe he just needs some time alone," she suggests uncertainly, as if even she doesn't really believe it.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

Van Pelt blinks, but hands it over anyway. Lisbon is already searching through the contacts when Van Pelt asks, "What happened to yours?"

"It broke," she replies shortly, then slams the phone shut as she gets his answering machine again. "Goddammit, Jane."

"I'm sure he'll be back soon, boss."

But Van Pelt's voice is hardly reassuring, and neither is the uncertain expression on her face. Even Cho looks a little worried now, and that is nearly enough to send Lisbon over the edge. Her heart is in her throat, and she is worried _sick_, and she feels so helpless, and she just _doesn't know what to do_. She doesn't know if there is anything she _can_ do.

So she settles for calling him every few hours, and her worry increases exponentially each time she hears the same response. _"You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message." _By the end of the day, she is at the end of her rope, so worried that she can barely even think straight. She leaves early, drives to all of his former haunts, then ends up back at her home, empty-handed. Racked with nerves, too high-strung to sleep, she takes two sleeping pills so that she can pass out, knowing she'll need to be in a better state of mind tomorrow.

But when she listens to her messages in the morning, none of which are from Jane, she doesn't feel any better. If anything, she feels worse. Her chest _hurts_, she is so worried. It is a physical ache, unlike anything she has ever experienced before, crushing and squeezing until she feels she can't breathe, can't think, can't live.

_Where is he?_

As the days go by and no one hears from him, they all become increasingly tense, snappish, worried. She has her entire team doing everything they can to look for him, has declared him a missing person with the authorities, and has requested a search party to try and find him. But Jane has always been a slippery little weasel, and he knows exactly how to avoid getting caught, always has.

She gets no results. He has just _disappeared_, off the face of the earth.

How is she supposed to help him when she can't even find him?

She calls him at least once a day, every day, feels her heart rise to her throat with hope then sink to her stomach when she gets the same reply, every time. "_You've reached Patrick Jane. Leave a message."_ It is a never-ending cycle of frustration, despair, and crushed hope, and she can't _stand_ it.

And then, one day, nearly a month later, she gets a different message when she calls.

"_The number you have dialed is no longer in service."_

She freezes, paralyzed, the phone still raised to her ear, beeping incessantly. She drops it.

And feels her entire world come crashing down.

Because Jane is inescapably _gone_. In the split second after she hears those ten words, she suddenly realizes that all of her searching is for nothing, because Jane either can't or _won't_ be found. If he can be, then it is clear that he doesn't want to be. And if he _can't_ be… if he's…

She refuses to even think the word 'dead'.

There's… nothing more she can do.

But she does _not_ give up. If Jane doesn't want to be found, then he won't be, and that's that. But if he's in trouble, if he needs to be found, then she _will_ find him, if it's the last thing she does.

She spends the rest of the day just going through the motions, acting on autopilot. She feels like a wooden marionette, like it's not really her at all, just some dull, lifeless clone, with no thoughts, no emotions, no feelings. No hope. But she doesn't call off the search team, doesn't take him off the missing person's list, doesn't delete his number from her new phone. Just in case.

She didn't think it was possible, but from then on she worries even more than before.

Because now there really isn't anything she can do. His phone is no longer in service. His emails bounce back. And no one in the entire nation has caught even a glimpse of him in weeks. She feels helpless, useless.

The team give up slowly, one by one. Rigsby is the first; not that he is cold, but he is impatient, and he can't really deal with the stress. Cho follows, believing that Jane doesn't want to be found, not that he can't be. And finally Van Pelt gives in too, her hopelessly romantic and optimistic heart deciding it's pointless to keep looking.

But Lisbon refuses to, not yet. Not when there's still a chance she can help him, if he needs it.

Weeks go by. Nothing changes. Red John's trial comes to a close, and Lisbon watches as he receives the death penalty. The others don't come with her, aren't even aware that she has decided to go. But it feels wrong, somehow, not to see it through all the way to the end. He dies, finally, after all of these years, and all she feels is empty, hollow, wooden. She falls asleep that night clutching at the empty hole in her chest and wondering whether it will ever, in her entire life, go away.

The next morning the newspaper covers the Red John story, and includes a picture of her, the leading agent who caught him, standing outside the courtroom. She can hardly recognize herself; she looks weary, and stressed, and very, very lost.

And still, more than anything, worried about Jane.

That night, she gets an email from an address she doesn't recognize. When she accidentally opens it instead of trashing it as junk mail, she feels the wind knocked out of her. Dazed, reeling with shock, she has to read it three times before her mind can even begin to make sense of the words.

_I'm okay, don't worry about me_.

She knows automatically who it is from, doesn't even have to think about it. She feels _alive_ again, like color has reentered her world, like she can breathe and see and smell and _feel_. She is gripped by euphoria, so intense she has to struggle to rein in it -

He's alive - he's _okay_.

Mind racing, body thrumming, heart pounding, she is almost done tracing the IP address - some internet cafe in South Korea - before she suddenly stops, fingers poised over the keyboard, and actually _thinks_. She had been acting on instinct and adrenaline earlier, trying to find him; she had spent so long without even a clue, and now he had just handed her one, and she had automatically taken it -

But then she reads his words again, and her heart slows down, sinks, drops.

"_Don't worry about me._"

Three months of absence, three months of stress and worrying and fear, and he finally contacts her only to tell her _not to worry about him_.

He's okay, and she is so relieved.

But he has also made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to be found.

She shouldn't be surprised. She had always known, always, that if he did let go of his revenge, Jane would resent her. Would blame her. Would never forgive her for it. Of course he doesn't want to be found by her, she's the reason he didn't get go through with his master plan, and he will always, always, resent her for it, and she shouldn't be surprised -

But now that her worry has gone, it is replaced by _hurt_.

It is agony, torture, a physical gnawing ache where her heart should be, and she realizes she _misses_ him, so, _so_ much - and how did she not notice this before? She misses him so much she can't breathe, can't live - and she realizes she will never see him again, and she realizes he quite possibly hates her now - and she wants to _die_, it is so painful - and oh, God, it _hurts_ -

For the first time since he disappeared, Lisbon feel salty tears cascading down her face, scarring her, burning her, choking her. She sobs loudly, out of control, heaves in huge gasps of air that burn her lungs, cries so hard her head starts to pound, to throb, until she feels she will implode, and it _hurts_. She cries herself to sleep that night, not even sure who she is crying for - for Red John, for Bosco, for Angela and Charlotte, for Jane -

Or maybe even just for herself.

When she wakes up the next morning there are dried tear tracks on her face, but she feels calmer. No less sad, but resigned now, accepting. Jane doesn't want to be found by her, and he doesn't need her, so she will finally, finally stop looking for him. She calls off the search party, takes him off the missing persons list, and lets the team know that he is okay. They deserve to know, even if she doesn't want to talk about it.

"But he's not coming back?" is the first question Van Pelt asks, and Lisbon can hear in her voice how her optimism is crushed, how her romantic and idealistic hopes for Jane and Lisbon are destroyed.

It hurts too much talk about, to think about, so she just shakes her head and retreats into her office, alone.

Try as she might, over the next few months she can't get him out of her head. Everything, absolutely everything reminds her of him. When she is in the office, she is okay, because she has distractions and work and cases to keep her mind busy. But at night, in her bed, alone, her mind wanders against her will, and she remembers him, and she _misses_ him.

She remembers meeting him, remembers her initial anger and distrust and resentment, and how Jane finally won her over, though she would never admit it.

She remembers paper frogs and trust falls and emerald necklaces and donuts - "_There's no accounting for taste" _- and card tricks and and psychic nonsense and blushes and "_I'm always going to save you_" and it spins through her mind dizzyingly, like a kaleidoscope of lost, treasured moments.

She remembers leaving, remembers the two months she spent in New Jersey where she felt like her world was over. She remembers Jane coming to tell her he needs her, he loves her, he won't kill Red John.

She remembers the four months they spent back in Sacramento, remembers the intimacy, the awkwardness, the hesitancy of two broken people trying to muddle through their emotions to make a rational decision.

She remembers Andrew and his wife Sheryl coming to visit for her birthday, remembers the dinner they shared -

_"Jane!" she had snapped, reprimanding him for going along with Andrew's suggestion of hypnotizing Sheryl._

_Jane had sheepishly sat back in a sulking silence, but Sheryl had raised her eyebrows with a smirk._

_"You guys have been dating for four months and you still call each other by your surnames?"_

_"Oh, we're not - dating," Lisbon had started awkwardly, unsure of how, exactly, to characterize their not-quite-a-relationship._

_"Are you sure?" Sheryl had asked knowingly, and how is it that three words could make Lisbon blush to the tips of her toes?_

_But then Jane had laid a hand on her knee under the table, somehow both comforting and oddly possessive, and she had smiled, and thought that yeah, he would always be _Jane_ to her, forever, no matter what._

And she cries, and she misses him, and she hurts. It is a slow, deep, fathomless ache, lurking in her veins, simmering in her blood, underlying her entire life. And as the weeks turn into months and she still can't move past this, she starts to realize that she may never, in her entire life, be done with him - and how can she bear living like this, forever and ever, when she can't even stand it for _now?_

But then time goes by and, as the summer heat disappears into fall, she finds that her grief and heartache slowly, gradually fade with it. And it will probably never be gone completely, she knows this, but she learns to cope with it. She may never be done with him, but she finds she _can_ live without him, she just needs to find the strength.

And then, out of the blue, twelve months after she found the gun, ten months after he gave up his revenge plan, and six months after he left, Patrick Jane walks back into her life as if he had never been gone at all.

* * *

The milk goes in first, white liquid against white ceramic, and then a teabag follows, tinting the pure white just a little. A wait, a whistle of the kettle, and then boiling water comes last, filling the mug to the brim. The teabag is lifted out once, twice, three times, and then the final time it doesn't return.

He takes a cautious sip, and smiles. It's perfect.

He leans back against the counter, and watches with amusement as Rigsby enters, looks over at him cursorily, heads to the fridge, then does a double take.

"Jane?" he gapes in disbelief, then a wide grin crosses his face. "Hey, man, good to see you! How've you been?"

"Hi."

Jane smiles back, and for the first time in a while it's sincere.

"Man, I can't believe you're here! Where've you been the whole time? Do the others know you're back? Have you seen the boss yet?"

Rigsby's smile is infectious, like a little child, and his rambling is really kind of endearing. He seems so excited, and it warms Jane's heart a little to know he was actually missed.

"You're the first person I've seen, actually. Where is everybody?"

"Probably getting back from lunch," replies Rigsby as he chews on a handful of carrots (damn Van Pelt).

As if on cue, she walks through the door and places her bag on her desk, shrugging out of her jacket.

"Wayne, didn't you _just_ get lunch?" she asks in exasperation, in response to his obnoxiously loud crunching on carrots.

"Yeah," he mumbles through his mouthful of food, "but I'm still hungry. Hey, look who's back!"

When Van Pelt turns around to face them, her mouth actually drops open in surprise.

"Jane!" she exclaims.

"Hi," he replies sheepishly, taking another sip of tea.

"You're here! Oh, my gosh, I can't believe it!"

The next thing he knows, she is wrapping her arms around him in a hug and he has to be very careful not to spill his tea. He chuckles, quietly, and carefully hugs her back, warily watching his mug.

"It's good to see you too," he says, and he means it.

She pulls back, but is still grinning like an idiot.

"How _are_ you? How have you been? You look good!"

"I feel good," he replies honestly.

"That's great," she beams. "Where have you been this whole time? Lisbon told us you were okay - did you even know we were looking for you? - but she didn't tell us where you were and - have you seen her yet?"

Jane shakes his head, still smiling.

"It's kind of a long story, and no. Is she around?"

Van Pelt smiles at him as if she is holding a secret, as if she knows exactly who he came back to see and why, and he almost wants to blush at her scrutiny, unused to being on the receiving end of it. Is he really so transparent?

Does he even care if he is?

Meh, not really. If things go the way he wants them to, they'll all know soon enough anyway.

"I think she's in her office," says Van Pelt, looking at him significantly, and Risgby just watches them with a clueless expression on his face.

"Right."

Jane smiles at them again, and moves to head towards her office, but is stopped when Cho enters the bullpen. Cho spots him immediately, and something passes over his stoic expression, but Jane must be out of practice because he can't read him at all.

"Jane," is all he says, emotionless.

"Good to see you, Cho," Jane exclaims with a beam.

He moves as if to clasp him on the shoulder, but Cho takes a step back almost imperceptibly, and Jane pauses.

"Good to see you too," Cho replies, but he doesn't exactly look pleased, and Jane frowns. "Where've you been?"

If anything, he sounds accusatory.

"You know, around," says Jane vaguely, not really wanting to get into it yet.

"You going to see Lisbon?" Jane nods, and Cho lowers his voice so the others can't hear. "Hurt her again, and I will break you."

Jane suddenly understands Cho's behavior, and he feels a pull in his gut. It is a strange dichotomy, a juxtaposition of pain and pleasure, because he at once both regrets hurting her and yet feels so at peace with himself that he can't regret leaving.

Cho was in a gang, and Jane knows without a doubt that he would go through with his threat, but he doesn't anticipate that having to happen at all. He will do everything, absolutely everything, in his power to make sure he doesn't hurt her he just nods his head in acknowledgement, and smiles back when Cho loosens up.

"And, hey, I'm glad you're back," Cho adds, the tiniest hint of a smile curling up his lip.

"Me too."

And then he heads towards her office. He stands just outside it, peering in through the slits in the blinds, and sees her for the first time in half a year. Her back is to him as she stands by her desk, pouring over some case files, and he watches as she turns the pages, taps her foot, massages the back of her neck. He could watch her forever, he decides, and never get bored.

He remembers the last time he sought her out, after those two hellish months when she had been in New Jersey. He remembers his state of inner turmoil, and how high-strung and tense he had been, remembers his emotional breakdown outside her brother's house. Back then he felt like his world had been flipped upside down, but now he finally feels that it has been righted again.

He can't regret leaving. He had needed it, at the time. He had been a _mess_, practically insane and deranged and mad. He had needed to come to terms with himself, to say goodbye, to let go and move on, and he had needed to be alone for it. And he had done it, and he can't remember the last time he felt so calm, so at peace with himself and the world. It wouldn't have been fair to her to start something when he was so messed up, but now he is _ready_.

He had travelled east, to Florida, then further east, to France, Italy, then to South Korea, where had heard about Red John's death and had broken down for a few days, before piecing himself back together, better than before. And then he had travelled further east, to Japan, then Hawaii, where he finally felt so at peace with himself that he decided it was time to travel even further east, back to California, coming full circle.

And now, watching her, he feels more than peace, he feels _home_. He can't remember the last time he felt like this; it is such an extraordinary feeling, rising and swelling within him until he thinks he might explode.

So he puts his teacup down and knocks on her door before entering, feeling like his heart might burst. She doesn't react except to blindly wave him in and underline something on the paper she's reading.

"Thanks, Cho, you can just put it on my desk," she says without looking at him, and he closes his eyes at the sound of her voice.

Oh, God, it feels good to be home.

"Lisbon," he says quietly.

Her spine stiffens and she freezes, clenching the edge of her desk so tightly her knuckles turn white. She turns around slowly, almost as if she doesn't want to, and her face is completely blank with shock as she finally looks at him. Her skin is so pale it is practically white, but her eyes are dark and shining, and _God, he's missed her_.

"Jane," she says blankly.

"Hi," he replies, and tries to hide the smile threatening to stretch across his face. He fails.

"You're back," she says stupidly, still standing frozen, like a dummy.

"I'm back," he agrees.

He walks forwards until he is standing right in front of her, so close they are almost touching. She hasn't stopped looking at him, has barely blinked, as if she expects him to disappear at any second. He places his hands on her shoulders, and she stares back at him blankly, dazed, reeling, until he slides his hands slowly up her neck and she snaps out of it.

"I - What are you _doing_ here?"

She is the only one who has asked him that, the only one who seems to have never expected to see him again, and that tugs at his heartstrings. Does she really have no idea how he feels about her? Did she really think he wouldn't ever come back to her?

"What do you mean?" he asks in confusion.

"I - why did you come back?"

She sounds confused, and lost, and his chest tightens. Does she really not know? How can she not know? He rubs his thumb against her pulse point, feels it race under her skin, and ducks down a little so he can see her eyes more clearly.

"Why do you think?" he murmurs.

She doesn't reply, just stares back at him in confusion and hurt. He thinks he can also see hope hiding somewhere behind her gaze, lurking quietly, and he realizes he might have to _show_ her, not tell her, why he came back.

So he leans in, and without a second thought he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, lingering. She is frozen, breathing shallowly, and Jane tilts his head just the tiniest bit - and then his lips are on hers, softly, lightly, almost intangible, a heartbreakingly gentle slide of lips that leaves them both reeling. A butterfly kiss.

He kisses her once, twice, lightly sips at her lips, tasting, exploring, learning. He is breathless, thrumming with energy, tingling, and he can't believe he's finally, finally, actually kissing her. But she doesn't react except to hold very, very still, and he is about to pull away, wondering with a sharp clench in his chest whether he made a mistake, whether she can't forgive the way he has treated her, whether she's moved on -

Then she responds, kisses him back, slides her fingers up over his shoulders and into his hair and - _oh, God, why they hell haven't they done this sooner?_ He unties her hair from its bun, runs his fingers through it, and - it's so _long_ now, and was he really away for so much time? Her lips are soft, warm, pliant, and he can't believe he's finally, actually, kissing her, and she smells like cinnamon and Lisbon and he can't get enough and his head is spinning and -

- there's a sudden throbbing pain in his gut, and he doubles over, places an arm across his stomach and gasps. What - ?

Lisbon's lips are swollen, and she is flushed, and breathing heavily, and - her hand is clenched into a fist?

"Did you just - punch me?" he asks in astonishment.

Well, he supposes he kind of deserves it.

"You _left_," she says, her voice small, and the ache in his heart hurts so much more than the pain in his gut.

She crosses her arms over her chest, and lowers her head, looking up at him from veiled lashes, and she looks so vulnerable and small and hurt that Jane can't stand it. He can't regret leaving, can't regret finding himself, but he feels _so much_ remorse that he had to hurt her in the process, so much remorse that it is almost killing him.

"I know," he replies softly.

He straightens up and places his hand on her shoulder again, but she shrugs it off jerkily, still looking up at him from under lowered eyes, as if she can't bear to face him directly.

"You left _me_," she whispers, and his heart physically _hurts_ when he sees the sheen in her eyes.

"I know," he repeats, just as quietly.

"You didn't even say _goodbye_."

And here her voice breaks, and Jane hurts so much he feels physically sick. He cups his hands around her jaw, uses his thumb to wipe away the tear crawling down her cheek, and presses a feather-light kiss to her temple. She doesn't push him away this time; if anything, she leans into his touch, closing her eyes and breathing raggedly, as if she has given in.

"I know," he repeats for the third time, whispering. "I am _so_ sorry. But I - I was a mess, Lisbon, and I needed to be alone for a while, but I'm _not_ anymore, and I promise, I will never leave you again."

"You don't - blame me? For Red John?" she asks hesitantly, as if she doesn't want to hear the answer.

Her voice is fragile and delicate like glass, and his heart clenches in his chest, so tightly he feels the breath knocked out of him, far harsher than her punch.

"No," he breathes, horrified, "no, Lisbon, I _never_ blamed you - is _that_ what you thought?"

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" she questions defensively, and crosses her arms tighter across her chest, even more vulnerable. "You just left, and you never even tried to contact me and -"

"No," he exhales, pressing closer against her, feeling his heart break. "No, I never blamed you, it was never about that. I promised you I wouldn't do it, and I didn't, but I never _resented_ you for it. I just - needed to be alone, really alone. You cloud my judgement too much, my dear. I needed time to - to come to terms with myself. With everything."

He had been so messed up that he hadn't even realized that Lisbon might be worried about him. Not until he saw her picture in that news article about Red John, saw how whitewashed and weary and ragged she looked, so bad that it had taken his breath away. He had let her know he was okay, so she wouldn't worry anymore, but he hadn't been ready to go back, not yet. He had kept that picture in his wallet though, a reminder that he wasn't just traveling aimlessly, that he was making his _towards_ something, towards her, and it had kept him grounded. Just like she always has.

But he had never even considered that she might believe he resented her. God, he had been stupid. He should have known her better than that; it was exactly the type of thing she would believe. Stupid, foolish, _amazing_ woman.

He leans his forehead against hers, feels her breath tickling his cheek, and closes his eyes in contentment, breathing her in. But she is quiet, as if she doesn't believe him, and he kisses her cheek lingeringly.

"I mean it. I never blamed you, not once. I love you, and I will never leave you again. Not even if you threaten to kill me," he adds.

She laughs once, watery but genuine, and wraps her arms around his back, bringing him closer. She clings on, and he can sense the desperate relief in her, the fear that she is dreaming, the reassurance that this is _real_. He smiles into her hair.

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"I'm not," he replies quietly, and he honestly means it.

"Okay," she whispers back.

But he can hear in her voice how she doesn't really believe him, not yet. She wants to, but he has broken her trust too many times, and she is scared to take the risk again. He presses his lips against her temple and vows that he will spend the rest of his life earning her trust back.

"But don't think you're off the hook," she warns; her voice is teasing but Jane can sense the undercurrent of seriousness in it. "You owe me big time."

He laughs, squeezes her tighter against him and feels her smile into his skin.

"Okay, what do you want?"

"Well…" she draws out the word. "Dinner would be good. And strawberries. Lots of strawberries."

He pulls back to look her in the face.

"That's it?"

"For now," she acquiesces.

She grins mischievously, and Jane finds himself laughing back at her. He can live with that. He's willing to spend the rest of his life making it up to her, because he's finally over his past. He's done with that chapter of his life.

And he can't wait to start the next one.


End file.
